Poetry: Syracuse Bus Terminal

Syracuse Bus Terminal 2:40 in the morning, Syracuse, New York. Mashed snow in the tire-tracks. A dark world turned to sludge. Greyhound in a strange land. An interstitial stop in a vertebral town On the broken spine of the I-90. This place is a monument to the can, To vending machines and exhaust fumes, The tomb of the unknown driver. Nothing wilfully grows here. The … Continue reading Poetry: Syracuse Bus Terminal